


He Was A Picture Frame

by charlesss



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), You Have My Heart AU
Genre: Angst, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 09:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20486627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesss/pseuds/charlesss
Summary: This is based off of Altruistic Skittles's AU (You Have My Heart). Please go watch the videos they're absolutely wonderful! (This one may not make complete sense until the next one is out, but I don't think it has any spoilers?)------Steven was at the mercy of destiny.  But destiny had little mercy left for him.





	He Was A Picture Frame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AltruisticSkittles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltruisticSkittles/gifts).

Long ago, in a magical realm, there lived several princes and princesses, many of them the (soon-to-be) rulers of their own respective kingdoms. One prince was called Virgil, who had been cursed by his sister and… well, it's largely unimportant. Who matters here is not Virgil, or his love Patton, or their friends Logan and Roman, or his witch of a sister Mars. 

The one who matters… is Steven.

Hundreds of years before Virgil was born, in the forests of what would one day be his kingdom, a seed from a great oak tree germinated in the soil, sprouting a sapling so helpless and small.

Over the next few decades, the plant grew, becoming stronger and taller, thicker. The forests grew around it, a family of trees, of plants, of brothers. This one tree was one of many, all of them bound together in a glorious destiny of servitude to their great forests.

All but this tree, that is. Destiny had different plans here, plans that began with a wayward lumberjack with anger issues and a perfectionist streak. Long story short, after only a few short centuries of growing, the tree was chopped down, reduced to logs and twigs in the burlap sack of fate. If fate was a drunkard lumberjack with a perfectionist streak.

The wood of this tree was made into many things, none of it going to waste. A coffin was carefully handcrafted for a dying king, one who had lived a long and beautiful life. His people would never forget him.

A wooden charm was made for a sorcerer to commemorate their achievement in their craft, and the troubles they had endured to save their kingdom.

A new handle for the finest axe in all the lands was made from this tree, and was attached to the head of said axe by the finest blacksmith on the Earth.

And there was also a picture frame.

This picture frame was one of many. It was not perfect, or glorious, or special, except that it had a small crack along one side that was barely visible to the naked eye. When lined up among other picture frames of similar caliber, it was never bought, not even by the poorest rich peasant.

This picture frame was fitted with glass, heated from the sands of a faraway desert. The glass was said to be the shiniest one could find. This batch had been botched, however, and was slightly dull, cloudy. This was why it had been placed with the picture frame in all its mundanity. 

This picture frame went unnoticed by all for nearly two decades. It remained in the shop it was originally made for for that whole time, only moved twice (once so someone could see the frame behind it, and another time to place it towards the back of the stock).

This frame, called Steven, had lived a long and sad life. He had been neglected by all, and he wondered if he would ever find a home.

Unfortunately, he did find a home, in the royal palace of Prince Patton.

Prince Patton had managed to stumble upon the woodworking shop that Steven called Hell, and after nearly an hour of searching through the various trinkets, the prince caught sight of the small picture frame at the back.

"Oh, this one is beautiful!" he scooped Steven up with one hand, wiping off the layers of dust with the other.

Steven did not say anything. He couldn't. He was a picture frame.

"How much for this?"

"Two silver," the man at the counter grunted. This was the teenage son of the lumberjack who had first consigned Steven to his miserable existence. Usually picture frames were five silver pieces. Whether this was a discount for the prince (unnecessary) or a further punishment for Steven by the universe (the likely answer), it made Steven feel like crying.

He could not cry. He was a picture frame.

The prince set him gently in his satchel, and exited the shop. Steven bounced around inside the leather bag for hours as the prince continued his shopping. He ended up sandwiched between the side of the bag and a book. This made him uncomfortable.

After hours of this torment, the prince must have decided to go back the castle, because when he pulled Steven from the bag, there they were. Steven saw a huge painting of the prince and some other man (this was prince Virgil, who Steven did not know, because he was a picture frame) held in an ornate golden frame.

He pretended not to notice this intimidating character, knowing that the larger and prettier picture frames were more likely to bully small defective saps like him. He could have blushed with embarrassment as Patton held him up the painting from the other end of the hall, as if measuring him.

He didn't blush, of course. He was a picture frame.

After another few minutes of walking, the whole time clutched in Patton's warm hands, they arrived in the Prince's study. He set Steven down on the table before grabbing a painting of himself. He pried Steven's back panel off, nearly cracking the thing in half, and gently placed the painting inside. Then he replaced the panel, setting Steven neatly on the desk.

"Is this too vain of a gift?" he wondered aloud to nobody. Steven thought so, but the prince must have decided otherwise. The next day, after being wrapped in thick brown paper, Steven found himself in the hands of another (entirely different) prince.

"Oh, Patton," the man breathed, "it's wonderful."

"Well, it's me…"

No, it was Steven.

"That's why it's wonderful, dearest."

Prince Patton blushed, wrapping the other prince in a hug. "I'm glad you like it, Virgil."

Prince Virgil placed Steven on his desk, always wanting to stare at the picture he held. Steven didn't mind this so much, he was a picture frame, after all. This was what he was made for.

He stayed in Virgil's room for a long time. Whether it was years or months, he could not tell. There was an illuminated calendar (a luxury) on the wall across from him, but he could not read.

For a long time, though, he sat, full with a picture inside his frame and some spark of contentedness within his heart. (His metaphorical heart, at least. He was made of wood.) He recognized this as his purpose, and he was happy to fulfill it. He believed this was the life for him.

But destiny did not.

Prince Virgil had been absent from his room for a long time. Longer than usual. Steven had little concern with this. He was a picture frame. But he did wonder where the prince had gone. Once or twice, Patton had come in and cried on his bed, often to be comforted by Logan or Roman, one of his friends around the castle. But Patton hadn't come by for a while now, either.

Mara, however, had.

Steven didn't know much about her. He didn't care much about her, either. He mostly ignored her. (He mostly ignored everything. He was a picture frame.)

But something about her was off.

He became more confused when she stopped coming, and the very next day… Virgil came back. He wasn't quite right, either, and this almost bothered Steven.

He tried to ignore it. After all, what could he have done? He was a picture frame. He could not move. He could not speak. He could not do anything.

One day, Virgil seemed happier than usual. He had placed a flier on the desk, bright and professionally illustrated. He was singing about something, moving about the room rather theatrically.

Steven should have been paying more attention. Too soon, he was in Virgil's hand, held high in the air as the prince stared at him. Steven felt a familiar sense of dread welling up in him. He had escaped the horrors hadn't he?! He was safe here, he had to be! He had to be! He…

He was on the floor. Virgil was above him, raising his foot.

Wood splintered and glass flew with a sickening crunch. Steven was broken, shattered, fractured beyond repair. He could feel the life bleeding away. His long and lonely life flashed before him.

The painting of Patton had torn slightly. It was the most recognizable thing in the pile of remains, though it was slightly stained with droplets of water.

Steven had been a picture frame. Steven had cried. And Steven had died.


End file.
